


Who Said 13 is an Unlucky Number?

by Neyiea



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Pre-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 00:57:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 5,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2713082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyiea/pseuds/Neyiea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the 13 Days for 13 Dwarves challenge on tumblr. Each chapter focusses on a separate member of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kíli

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kíli has always been a rapscallion, especially when he was younger.

He crouches under the table, holding a hand over his mouth to mask the sound of his breathing as he watches the boots trail past his hiding place. His shoulders shake with the effort to hold in his laughter, and then-

"Found you!"

His mother grabs him, lifting him up into her arms so that she can rain kisses down on his face as he shrieks. After giving him a final peck on the nose she pulls away to look him over.

"And now it’s time for little pebbles such as yourself to be off to bed."

Kíli squirms in her arms. “Ma, no. Five more minutes?”

"It was ‘five more minutes’ five minutes ago, and five before that as well." She sets him down and ruffles his hair. "Fíli’s already gone to bed."

"But Ma, I’m not tired," he whines, tugging at the hem of her shirt. "Can’t we keep playing?"

"You may not be tired, but I’m exhausted." She yawns exaggeratedly. "It takes a lot of energy to find and catch you."

Kíli giggles and makes as if to run off again, but a pair of large hands come down on his shoulders and anchor him in place. He tips his head back, grinning up at his father who smiles down at him.

"What are you still doing up, Kíli?"

"Not tired."

"Ah, I see."

His mother and father share a fond look over his head.

"Well, how about you come and sit with me in front of the fire. You don’t have to go to bed, but no more running around. If you’re really good," he begins seriously, crouching down and looking Kíli straight in the eyes, "you may even get a story out of it, alright?"

"Alright!"

Kíli dashes out of the kitchen, the warm sound of his father’s laughter trailing after him.


	2. Óin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even in the grimmest times, a spark of hope can be found and fostered.

There are some days, few and far between though they may be, where his medicinal knowledge feels more like a curse than a blessing. There had been times after Smaug had stolen their home that Óin had been forced to watch sickness fester without the proper tools to remedy it, and survey for signs of starvation knowing that there was so little he could do to help.

And now this.

He views the broken bodies of friends, family and brothers-in-arms strewn before the Eastern Gate of Khazad-dûm, and searches endlessly for survivors even though a part of him condemns his actions as hopeless. He can tell by the placement of wounds who died instantly and who was left to bleed out; alone, in pain, and scared out of their minds.

Each unresponsive body he uncovers feels like a personal failure. He should have found them sooner, should have been more prepared, should have forced more healers to accompany him.

Everything is clear in retrospect, but Óin grits his teeth and continues on, checking for vital signs even when he’s nearly 100% sure there won’t be any.

He’s been combing the battlefield for what feels like hours when he uncovers a dwarf who has an orcish weapon imbedded deeply into their body. Óin knows, intellectually, that no one could survive such a blow, but his intuition makes him reach out, placing his fingers along the dwarf’s wrist just below the thumb and gently pressing down.

Then he feels it. Weak and slow, but a pulse is a pulse.

"Glóin," he calls over his shoulder, "I’ve found a survivor!" 

He waits for his brother, watching with no small amount of wonder as the chest of someone who should by all rights be dead expands and contracts with shallow breaths.

Glóin reaches him, arms laden with medical supplies, and Óin quickly grabs what he needs.

He has been too late for many today, but not this one.

This one will live.


	3. Dwalin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is possible that once, a long time ago, Dwalin was afraid of needles. Not that he’d ever admit it.

His coming of age is a quiet but joyful affair. Balin bemoans how quickly he is growing, making far too many comments about how he remembers when Dwalin was only ‘yea high’, but he makes up for it by presenting him with a pair of sleek, perfectly balanced daggers.

His mother, even more sentimental than his brother, continually knocks their foreheads together even after she’s given him a new bead to braid into his hair.

It’s when his father pointedly clears his throat and brings out the small wooden box that Dwalin can just barely remember from Balin’s coming of age that he begins to fidget.

He’d known it was coming, it’s family tradition after all, but he still doesn’t feel prepared to have a needle, however small, pierce his flesh.

It makes no sense, to be afraid of such a little thing when he sometimes handles actual weapons during training, but he can’t help it.

Balin excuses himself with a grin and his mother makes to leave too, but Dwalin reaches out to clutch at the fabric of her dress before she can go.

She looks at him questioningly and then without any prompting smiles and nods, sitting back down and holding onto him as his father sets up the equipment.

His father’s hands are warm and steady as he works, and his mother hums a soothing tune under her breath when Dwalin’s grip on her fingers tightens.

The procedure is quick and relatively painless, and his mother rests their foreheads together one last time before taking his face into her hands to look closer at the gleaming stud in his ear.

"My, how mature you’ve become. Go on and show your brother."

He nods and stands, fingers coming up to trace around the cool metal. It’s a little sore, but nothing he can’t handle.

Dwalin beams.

That hadn’t been so bad after all.


	4. Bifur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s nothing like creating something with your own two hands.

He remembers how, back when his grandfather had become too old to work in the mines, he’d taken up wood carving to keep his hands busy. Bifur, too young at the time to be allowed a knife of his own, would sit and stare at his grandfather’s work for hours, watching figures emerge from blocks of lifeless wood with no small amount of wonder.

"Can you teach me? Once I’m old enough," he had asked, and his grandfather’s already wrinkled face had crinkled further with a smile as he nodded.

That night he’d given Bifur the model he’d been working on, a perched raven, and Bifur’s fingers had eagerly traced the smoothed edges and divots in the wood, marvelling at the intricacies in the feathers.

He studied his grandfather’s technique with an intense focus until he was finally old enough to start practicing himself, and together they’d spend their evening hours whittling away at whatever little project had taken their fancy.

Things took a turn once he was old enough to start working in the mines, no longer having the freedom of childhood to do whatever he’d like so long as his chores were done, and his projects slowed to a stop when his grandfather passed, not quite up to sitting beside the house and doing woodwork alone.

Then he receives an injury that leaves him on indefinite bed-rest.

Bifur, like his grandfather before him, had never been too keen on sitting around and doing nothing, and he knows that laying in bed all day will only make him anxiously contemplate the possibility that he may never be able to speak Common again. So he takes his whittling knife and a piece of white oak and heads for the side of the house, half-formed ideas already springing into his mind.

He doesn’t notice the dwarfling standing in front of him until they’ve been there long enough that their shadow stretches out to touch his boots, and even then he glances up cautiously, half worried it’s someone come to stare at his head.

But the child only has eyes for the wood in his hands, and Bifur’s lips twitch in a smile as he gets back to work, adding small details to the dwarven warrior’s armour.

When he’s finished he holds it out with a raspy, “for you.” The child blinks in confusion before they realize he’s speaking to them, and then wonder spreads over their face as they reach out.

As they trail away, throwing smiles and waves over their shoulder, Bifur wonders if that was how he looked while watching his grandfather work all those years ago.


	5. Thorin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin’s still a bit new to this ‘uncle’ business.

He doesn’t bother looking up when he hears the front door open or the footsteps coming nearer, then only glances out of the corner of his eye and briefly nods to acknowledge Dís’s presence when she stops to stand beside him, her arms gently rocking a swathed bundle.

"Víli and I have decided we deserve a night off," she states without preamble.

"Understandable," Thorin murmurs under his breath, his focus centred on the tuning of his harp. 

"And since you are Fíli’s favourite uncle-"

"I’m his only uncle." Thorin plucks at a string to test the sound. "And he can’t have chosen favourites yet, he’s only a month old."

"As you wish, then. As Fíli’s _only_ uncle it is time for you to test your mettle and take care of him through the night.”

Thorin stops, turns towards his sister, and then looks down with no small amount of alarm at the tiny pink face of his nephew, barely peeking out from the layers of fabric he’d been wrapped in.

Dís takes one look at him and snorts.

"He’s a baby, Thorin, he doesn’t even have teeth to bite you with."

"That is entirely unhelpful, and also _thank you_ for reminding me about the biting.”

Dís grins, her teeth flashing just enough for Thorin to feel vaguely unsettled before her expression sobers. “It’s not like you’ve never cared for Fíli before, Mahal’s beard, you spend hours with him every day.”

Thorin very gently sets his harp down and stands, arms opening instinctively despite his protests. “But never alone, and never for a whole night.”

"Well, this will be great practice for you, won’t it?" She gently settles Fíli into his arms and presses a kiss to her son’s forehead before leaning in to brush her lips against Thorin’s cheek. "You’ll be fine."

"Which one of us are you speaking to?"

She huffs out a laugh. “Both,” she says cheekily, giving Fíli one last kiss before she goes.

Thorin stares down at his nephew in trepidation, half-sure that the babe will start to wail as soon as his mother shuts the door. Crying is usually his cue to pass Fíli off to either his parents or Balin, all of whom are grossly better than Thorin at dealing with a sobbing child.

Instead of acting out the great number of terrifying possibilities that somehow all involve tears being shed, Fíli looks up at him and gurgles happily.

"Yes, well," Thorin clears his throat, "it seems as though it is just you and I tonight, little one."

His nephew coos and Thorin maybe, possibly, melts just a little.


	6. Glóin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s not every day that a dwarf becomes a father.

He paces outside the door, nervously stroking his fingers through his beard as he strains to hear anything that would give him a reason to burst in, with or without the midwife’s permission.

This is not proceeding the way he had planned at all. He was supposed to be inside with his wife; holding her hand, whispering sweet nothings into her ear, reassuring her that everything would be alright. Instead he’d been kicked out for being ‘too loud’ and a ‘distraction’.

Glóin huffs, nearly stomping his foot in irritation at the memory of being told his presence ‘wasn’t conducive to a calming environment’, and paces even more.

"You’re going to wear a hole in the floor," Óin tells him dryly from where he’s sitting, looking far too relaxed, and Glóin whirls on him.

"But my dear multifaceted gemstone, my finely polished Black Opal, what if she needs me?"

Óin pulls a face, Glóin ignores it and continues on.

"And I still do not see why you are out here. Should not you, of all people, be allowed inside? Go in, go in, then convince the midwife to allow me back. I’ll even promise not to do the breathing exercises."

"I specialize in treating the injured, not delivering babies, and I’ll not intrude just to make a nuisance of myself. Now calm down, my sister-in-law is in very capable hands." 

Glóin takes a deep breath, then another, and another. It doesn’t seem to help much and he feels a bit faint by the time the midwife finally cracks the door open and waves him in. He takes one final look at his brother, who grumbles and says something about giving him some time alone first, then steps through the threshold. 

There, laying amidst sweat-damp sheets looking tired and worn yet more beautiful than ever is his wife, and sleeping in her arms is their greatest creation.

Glóin finds himself, quiet uncharacteristically, speechless.

She smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkling in that delightful way that makes him fall in love with her all over again, and when she speaks her voice is hushed.

"Glóin, say hello to our son."

"Our son," he manages to wheeze through the oncoming tears, stepping forward and reaching out to graze the fine ginger hair dusting the newborn’s crown. "Our son."


	7. Fíli

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fíli hears a fiddle for the first time.

He idly scuffs his boots in the dirt as he waits at the outskirts of the marketplace for his mother and brother, huffing and sighing with all the impatience of a 30 year old who’d rather be anywhere else. He scratches at his itching chin, vaguely wondering if it’s a sign of a beard about to grow in, and sighs again.

His foot starts tapping rhythmically even before he is consciously aware of the music, but as soon as he hears the strains of it his eyes whip around in search of the source. It doesn’t take long to find it, a dwarrowdam, maybe 70, holding a wooden instrument tucked under her chin and moving a contraption not unlike a condensed bow over the strings.

Her foot is tapping too, and her fingers on the neck of the instrument are constantly in motion.

Fíli, too young to bother hiding his curiosity but too old to want to make it seem obvious, watches with a keen interest from where he stands.

Then she catches his eye and smiles, and he takes that as an invitation to come closer.

She finishes with a flourish and makes a great show of bowing, pleased with her own performance.

Fíli is not a stranger to music, of course. He has often had the great honour of hearing his uncle play the harp and his own mother is quite adept at the lyre, but the tunes they play are usually slow and somber, nothing as fast and cheery as this.

"Liked my song, did you?" She asks and Fíli nods.

"Music like that, it makes you feel like dancing."

She preens. “Oh, aye, a merry gathering can always use more music and dancing,” she whispers something that sounds an awful lot like ‘and drinking’ under her breath with a grin. “My cousin’s wedding is coming up, so I’ve been practicing on my adad’s fiddle.”

Fiddle. Fíli stores the name away for future reference.

"Well, you’re very good."

"Thank you, young sir, for the compliment." She tucks the fiddle under her chin again, adjusts her hold on the neck and draws the bow over the strings slowly, as if to test the quality of the sound. Then her foot starts tapping again and soon after the music starts anew. 

He stays and listens to her play until he hears his brother call his name.


	8. Dori

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dori’s hair hasn’t always been silver.

He is quite young by dwarven standards when the first strands of grey make themselves known. Dori stares at them, hardly noticeable amidst the red he and his brothers had inherited from their mother, and has to fight the urge to pull them out.

"Stress? Is it stress," he murmurs as he brushes his hair. If it does turn out to be because of anxiety he is going to have a good, long talk with Nori, who ignores his curfew far too often and never directly answers Dori’s questions about where he’s been.

But when he brings it up with his mother he learns it’s most likely genetic, his father having had a full head of snowy-white by the time he was 120.

"He was exceedingly handsome, your father," she goes on to say, which does very little to alleviate Dori’s concerns about possibly going completely grey before he’s even reached his prime.

There’s nothing for it, though, it keeps growing in. Strands light and sparse enough that they could once pass as blond are now unmistakably not, and Dori takes to braiding his hair in styles specifically meant to hide anything but his ginger locks.

"I don’t know why you do that," Ori tells him one morning before Dori has the chance to touch up his plaits. "I like your hair, it’s lovely. It makes you look distinguished."

"That’s sweet of you to say, Ori." Bless his heart, using words like ‘lovely’ and ‘distinguished’ just to make his poor elder brother feel better.

"It’s not ‘sweet’, it’s the truth." Ori darts forward to grab an unkempt braid. "It’s got a sheen to it, your new hair; like steel or silver or— or mithril." His eyes take on a wide, puppy-dog look that Dori had thought he’d grown out of last year. "Please don’t try to hide it any more?"

"Well," Dori’s fingers twitch and hover, unsure what to do. "Well, I suppose if you’re so set on this I don’t have much of a choice."

Ori beams.


	9. Ori

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ori has always loved history.

History always has been and always will be a huge part of their culture. From oral tales passed down through generations to battle songs to preserved art and metal-work, everything that can be maintained and given the remembrance it deserves, is.

Ori’s favourite form of recollection is their written history. Far more in-depth than spoken narratives and songs, he loves learning the intricacies of each individual event, even the ones that seem mundane in comparison to their epic battle accounts and timeless love stories.

Nori had told him once, after Ori had spoken to him at length of a treaty drafted up by Thorin the First which had regretfully never been completed, that he absorbed knowledge like a sponge absorbed water. To this day Ori regards it as one of the greatest compliments he’d ever received, though he tries not to let it go to his head.

He just finds it so interesting, reading books with faded ink that are thicker than the width of his hand, and he knows long before it is time for him to choose his craft that he wants to be someone who records and preserves occurrences, no matter how nonsensical they may seem, for future generations.

No one is at all surprised when he begins his training as a scribe, and he approaches each new learning experience with relish.

Ori’s only been in training for several years when he begins to hear whispers of a quest to take back Erebor. He, like most others, take it for hearsay when the rumours first start circulating, but while the gossip never takes the forefront of any conversation it always seems to be in the peripherals, never quite dying out.

Then there is Fíli and Kíli, both of whom have taken to walking around with a certain amount of gleeful self-importance that they hadn’t had before, and if anyone would be in the loop about the whole situation it would be them.

He finally gathers the courage to ask his mentor whether or not there’s any truth to the reports, and isn’t entirely surprised when it turns out to be completely factual. 

He turns the idea of joining such a quest over in his head the following evening.

It would be difficult and dangerous. No doubt there would even be some who would call it a fool’s errand. But Ori thinks back to everything he’s ever read, every time the odds have been stacked against his people and they succeeded anyway. He thinks of the stories his mother sometimes shares, when she’s in a wistful, reminiscent mood, about what growing up in Erebor had been like. He thinks of the way Dori’s eyes gloss over during those rare occurrences, and the way his smile takes a fond, fragile appearance.

He thinks of what it would be like, to be there while history is in the making.

And he knows that he has to be a part of it.


	10. Nori

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he was younger Nori enjoyed practicing, and occasionally showing off, his sleight-of-hand.

The coin dances smoothly over his knuckles with each flex of his fingers, gleaming dully in the light every time it makes a full rotation.

Then with a flick of his wrist it rockets into the air and his right hand reaches out and snatches it when it begins to descend.

Nori smiles when he opens up his fist, fingers uncurling to showcase his empty palm. His smile widens as Dori’s face takes on a bewildered look.

"Well, I suppose that is something, isn’t it?"

"I’ve not even got to the best part yet!" He turns his attention to Ori, who’s cheerily gurgling in their mother’s lap.

He makes a point to show off his empty hands once again before reaching behind his younger brother’s ear and pulling out the coin.

Ori squeals in what he is happy to assume is delight while their mother applauds.

"Where did you learn that? How did you do it?" Dori asks and Nori proudly puffs out his chest.

"A true professional—" he flicks the coin into the air again and tips his head back, appearing to catch it in his mouth and swallow it down, "— never reveals his secrets."

Dori’s eyes go wide and he murmurs a shocked, “all right, then,” before going up to his room.

This reaction is nothing compared to an hour later when, after complaining of a stone in his boot, Dori takes it off, turns it over and shakes it, and the coin drops out and rolls innocuously across the floor.

Nori laughs about his brother’s surprised yelp for weeks.


	11. Bofur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bofur enjoys being an uncle, even if it’s exhausting.

There must be some sort of process, when a person becomes a parent, where they eventually acclimatize to the lesser hours of sleep and higher levels of activity until they are able to function on a level far superior to non-parents, who need more than the occasional nap.

Not that Bofur minds helping watch over his niece and nephew, precious ducklings that they are, but they can be quite a handful.

Bombur will sometimes go out of his way to remark that they remind him an awful lot of a _certain someone_ when they were younger. Bofur will repress a grin and wonder aloud who on Middle Earth he could possibly be talking about.

Then his nephew will run past wearing nothing his boots, and between making sure he doesn’t leave the house, convincing him to put some pants on and trying to suppress his laughter Bofur can’t deny that there is a certain resemblance, personality-wise.

His mother had always said he was particularly rambunctious. 

It must be a sign that he’s getting old, though, that he can hardly keep up with two dwarflings for a couple hours at a time. Sometimes he can convince them to play very quietly and will take a quick nap, even though he knows his hair’s going to be de- and re-braided by the time his eyes open again.

Bofur kind of looks forward to seeing the styles they come up with, to be honest. Children are so creative, after all.

In his relatively short but fulfilling time as an uncle he’s become an expert storyteller and has been informed quite seriously that he ‘does the best voices, but don’t tell mum’, which is something he is more than happy to brag about to his fellow workers in the mines. Not only that, but he’s also turned into something of a specialist in convincing young ones that it’s time to go to bed, a skill that his sister-in-law is endlessly thankful for.

He can tuck them in and send them off to the land of nod in ten minutes flat, and if they so happen to ask for a song he takes a comically deep breath, opens his mouth and goes: “ _Oooooohhhhh-_ ”

"No singing my children to sleep with drinking songs," Bombur will interrupt from the doorway, summoned as if by magic, or perhaps all parents had a sixth sense.

"Oh, if you insist. Since I am regretfully only aquatinted with songs that young ears have no business hearing I suppose I’ll leave the lullaby to you." He’ll pass his brother with a wink and head home, pleasantly worn out.


	12. Balin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’d never think it, but Balin was not always a studious individual.

He taps his fingers against the table-top and swings his feet beneath the desk, staring blankly at the sheets of paper he’s meant to be copying out.

It’s too nice of a day for lessons, Balin is sure of it. The harvest has started in Dale and it seems as if everyone within the mountain is running about on errands to prepare themselves not only for the upcoming winter, but for the autumn festival.

Balin cradles his face in his hands and thinks of how much he wishes the festival was at this very moment. Then he could have an excuse to go out and run wild, instead of having to stay in his room and practice calligraphy. 

He frowns down at the papers stacked before him, then turns his attention to his bedroom door.

No one has checked up on him for a while, he muses as he lightly gets up from his chair, and really, as long as his work is finished by tomorrow no one will know if he snuck out to have a bit of fun.

He presses an ear against the door, straining to hear anything other than his own breathing, and swings it open.

His mother’s beaming face greets him and he freezes.

"Finished already?"

"Uh, no," he murmurs, "I was just— feeling a little thirsty?"

"I’ll grab you some water, dear, so you can march right back to that desk of yours and continue your hard work." Her smile takes on a mischievous edge, like she knows exactly what Balin’s been up to. "When I come back I’ll look over what you’ve done so far. Make sure you’re on track."

"Yes amad." He slowly closes his door and nearly runs to his desk, intent on completing as much work as possible before his mother returns.


	13. Bombur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bombur meets the dwarrowdam who will someday be his wife.

Going to the pub at the end of every work-week is something of a tradition between them. He and Bofur relax, have a few pints, and catch up with each other. All in all it’s a very pleasant, if not predictable, sort of evening.

Then he sees her for the first time. Her auburn hair pulled back from her smiling face, her eyes glinting in the low light, her voice like a bell as she asks he and his brother what they’re having.

Bombur, not the most vocal at the best of times, finds himself unable to make more than a strangled sound which is thankfully swallowed up by the din of the other patrons.

Bofur, always a little too good at guessing what Bombur is thinking, cheekily orders for the both of them, smiling widely at the dwarrowdam with his trademark charm as she leaves before nudging Bombur with his elbow.

"So," he begins slyly and Bombur resists the urge to burry his face in his hands, "she’s struck you speechless, has she?"

Bombur avoids eye contact, not interested in giving his brother any more ammunition, manages to nod politely at the server when she drops off their tankards and makes sure to steer their conversation in a less embarrassing direction.

Bofur is happy to let the subject drop, for now, though he continues to nudge Bombur’s side whenever she walks by.

They settle their bill without any hassle and Bombur easily ignores the pointed looks his brother keeps sending him as they walk out.

"Wait! You forgot your pipe!"

Bombur pauses and turns around, surprised to see what looks to be— and is, he discovers after patting down his pockets and finding it missing— his pipe being held out to him by their server.

Beside him Bofur starts to whistle cheerily.

"Thank you," he manages to say, reaching out for the pipe and trying not to blush when their hands make contact. "I haven’t seen you working here before, are you new?"

"Yes, just started a few days ago." She tucks a stay lock of hair behind her ear, her eyes flitting from him to the ground in a curious manner. 

"Well," he clears his throat, "we’d better be off. Thanks again." He waves the hand holding his pipe. "Maybe… Maybe we’ll see you again next week?"

She smiles. “Yes, so long as you come around at the same time I should be working.”

"Ah. Good."

She waves and heads back into the pub, and Bofur gives him a friendly pat on the back.

"Same time next week then, eh?"

Bombur nods.


	14. Everyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An (un)expected gathering.

Their first convergence together in the home of their reluctant, ill-prepared host blooms into a controlled sort of chaos.

Most of them are already acquainted with each other and everyone meshes together easily as the merry gathering begins. Except for maybe Dwalin and Nori; the guardsman giving the thief broody looks while Nori sends him smiles that are all teeth.

Bombur and Glóin seem to form an unlikely alliance when they learn that the other is married. They sit together and sigh about their respective wives and the children they’ve left behind, then Glóin whips out his locket and goes off on a tangent, unaware of the way Óin rolls his eyes and pointedly sets down his ear horn. He picks up a conversation with Bifur in Iglishmêk, discussing their journey through the strange and peaceful domain named The Shire.

Fíli and Kíli, forever in each other’s pockets and bringing out the most mischievous in one another, try to dare Ori into taking a bite of the strange blue cheese they’d found in the pantry only to find their efforts thwarted not only by Dori but Balin as well, who each carry on separate lectures about the importance of not eating spoiled food or making anyone else eat it.

Bofur, perfectly content to sit back and chuckle to himself over the proceedings and the evident excitable prudence of their soon-to-be burglar, helps himself to another tankard of ale before joining his brother and cousin.

They settle, somewhat, when Thorin finally appears, eagerly getting down to business regarding their purpose in the hobbit’s home. The atmosphere switches from jovial to serious as their meeting goes on, and by the time Bilbo has retired to bed and Gandalf has stepped out for an evening smoke their collective mood is almost somber.

The fire in the living room crackles, a few light their pipes, and no one breaks the silence for several long moments.

Then someone begins to hum.

The tune is familiar to them all, the seizure of Erebor having reverberated through all dwarf-kind, not just those who lived within the Lonely Mountain at the time of its loss. One by one they all join in on the harmony, a unifying moment of The Company of Thorin Oakenshield.

" _Far over the Misty Mountains cold…_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! <3


End file.
